Bullet
by WayWardWonderer
Summary: Sherlock has been shot. Watson and Mrs. Hudson take care of him. (very short story)


The heavy door of the brownstone slammed open hard, shaking the first floor as thunder crashed loudly throughout the city. Flashes of lightning eerily cast his shadow along the wooden floor, stretching far inside the large room. Sherlock stumbled into the front of the brownstone, his hands clutching at his abdomen as red drops of his flowing blood escaped between his paled fingers.

"Watson..." His voice was weak as he called out to his friend through gritted teeth. "Watson...? I need your assistance..."

From upstairs in her soon to be vacant bedroom, (former doctor) Joan Watson had been reading a book on criminal science. She heard the front door slam open and was listening intently for any sign indicating danger from a possible intruder. Incoherent mumbling was the only sound filling the large brownstone in between thunder claps. Mustering as much courage as possible Joan exited her doorway and looked down the staircase.

"Watson..." Sherlock's entire body was shaking from pain and blood loss. He sensed someone watching him from the top of the stairs. "Please..."

"Oh my God, Sherlock!" Joan saw the blood covering her friend's hands. She bolted down the staircase and wrapped her arms around his torso to keep him from falling, her eyes focusing on the source of the blood. "What happened? Tell me what happened!"

"I..." He stopped short as he suddenly began to pant, trying to catch his fleeing breath before answering. "I have been... shot."

"Shot?!" She pried Sherlock's hands away from his abdomen. Blood oozed from the opened wound. The metallic smell of fresh blood and gun powder was a sickening stench. "I'll call an ambulance."

"No! No ambulance, no hospitals, no doctors... Just you..."

"Sherlock, I _can't_ help you! You need to be in a hospital, you could die."

"No... I'd rather die here in a pool of my own blood than in a hospital as a statistic with only a number to my name. I won't leave. You can't-" He let out a heavy breath before falling lifelessly to his side onto the wooden floor.

"Sherlock!" Instinctively she pressed her fingers to his neck and felt his pulse. Too rapid. "Sherlock? Open your eyes."

A low groan of pain was her only response. Rummaging through his tarnished coat she puled Sherlock's cell phone from its pocket. She scrolled through the list of names, pausing momentarily on Detective Bell and Captain Gregson before continuing down the list, stopping on Mrs. Hudson. She pressed dial.

"_Hello_?" The familiar voice sounded sleepy but alert. "_Sherlock, is something wrong_?"

"Mrs. Hudson, it's me, Joan." She pressed the phone against her ear to drown out the sound of rumbling thunder.

"_Joan? What's going on, dear? Where's Sherlock_?"

"He's with me but he's in rough shape. He's been shot."

"_Shot? I'll be there in a few moments, just sit tight_." With that final sentence Joan heard a click followed by a vacant dial-tone.

Joan was surprised by Mrs. Hudson's reaction, or lack-there-of, to be more specific. She dropped the phone and returned her focus to Sherlock.

He was still unconscious, a small pool of blood was blossoming outward from beneath his prone form. A fine sheen of a sweat was building on his brow as his face continued to grow paler by the second.

Joan checked for an exit wound on Sherlock's back with her hands, but there was none. The bullet was still inside his body. She carefully slipped her arms under his own and lifted him up until he was sitting on the ground, she allowed his heavy body to lean against her own as she struggled to keep him balanced.

"Alright, let's go." Using as her own body as leverage Joan lifted her injured colleague up from the ground until his legs were once again under him, instinctively he tried to stand despite his weakened state.

Wrapping her arm again around Sherlock's torso, she positioned herself at his side and slowly began walking him toward the tall staircase. "Okay... We can do this."

"No..." Sherlock's words were much quieter than either of them had expected him to ever sound. "You cannot carry me..."

"You're right, I can't. That's why you're going to walk and I'm going to guide." She pressed her hand against the bleeding wound and Sherlock let out a single grunt of pained protest but did not try to remove her hand from his body.

As Joan neared the bottom step Sherlock managed to reach out and grasp onto the handrail for support. Taking each step slowly the duo walked up the staircase and toward the opened door of Sherlock's bedroom.

"Almost there..." Joan almost sounded out of breath as they reached the top landing, whereas Sherlock didn't react.

It was a struggle to remove Sherlock's grip from the handrail but reluctantly he released his grip from the banister. Clumsily Joan led Sherlock into his bedroom, a trail of blood drops marking their path from the first floor, up the stairs and the length of the hallway on the second floor.

"Here we go..." Joan carefully sat Sherlock down on the edge of the bed. She used her hands to cradle his head and guide him gently down against the cool sheets and mattress.

As she began to unbutton his bloodied shirt, from below on the first floor, she heard the still opened front door close and someone walk inside. "Joan?" Mrs. Hudson had arrived.

"Up here!" Joan responded loudly, her eyes never leaving Sherlock's injury. As Joan began peeling back the sticky stained fabric of the top shirt and bloodied white t-shirt from his abdomen, Joan felt a warm hand rest gently on her shoulder. She turned to see Mrs. Hudson standing behind her.

"How's he doing?" Mrs. Hudson was holding a large gray tote bag that seemed to be packed full.

"He's still alive." Joan saw the loaded tote in her grasp. "What's that?"

"Oh, here!" Mrs. Hudson handed the tote to Joan. "It's a crudely made emergency medical kit."

Joan opened the tote and began pulling out the gathered supplies: Bundles of gauze, thick pressure bandages, medical adhesive, cotton balls, cotton swabs, rubbing alcohol, silk thread with a sterilized needle, latex gloves and small forceps. "Where... No, not 'where', _why_ do you have this?"

"Sherlock asked me to continuously stock up on certain material, just in case something like this happened."

"In case something like this_ should_ happen, or because some like his_ would_ happen?"

"Probably both."

"Right..." Joan motioned toward a lamp in the corner. "Could you bring that over here, please?"

"Sure."

Joan slipped on the gloves and began to clean the still bleeding wound with the alcohol and cotton balls. Sherlock's body shuddered with pain. She could feel heat radiating from his skin as the muscles beneath her hand tensed from her touch. With the additional light from the lamp Joan could see a small glint from the bullet's casing, it was still embedded in Sherlock's abdomen.

"I need to get the bullet out." She looked toward Mrs. Hudson with a plea in her eyes. "This is really going to hurt, think you can hold him down?"

"No problem."

Mrs. Hudson stood at the head of the bed, she folded Sherlock's arms across chest and put her hands on his forearms. She pressed down firmly, but without crushing force, to keep him from flinching.

Joan called his name. "Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

"Every word..." His voice was still quiet, almost hoarse. "This is going to hurt..."

"You know I need to get the bullet out."

"I'm aware of what must be done, Watson. Might I ask a simple courtesy of a stick to bite down on?"

Mrs. Hudson reached into a side pocket on the tote and pulled out a wooden drumstick. "Here you go." She held it down next to his teeth, he looked at it briefly before looking at her.

"Might I ask _why_ you have a drumstick in your possession?"

"My ex. He was a drummer for some underground rock band. When I found out he cheated on me I threw all his clothes out the window and lit them on fire, before I took his drumsticks... You know, just to spite him."

"I see. Please proceed." He allowed her to place the drumstick between his opened teeth and he bit down, hard! Mrs. Hudson then resumed holding his arms down and nodded toward Joan indicating that they were both ready.

Joan poured half of the bottle of alcohol over the wound and Sherlock let out stifled groan of pain. He couldn't move his arms or sit up, but he could still move his legs about. He did his best to avoid injuring Joan while he kicked about in his agony.

"I'm sorry..." Joan whispered more to herself than anyone else. She proceeded to pour the alcohol over the forceps before using it to grip the bullet and remove it. Again, Sherlock responded with muffled groans and frugal kicking. "I've got it!" Using controlled precise strength, Joan pulled the bullet from Sherlock's body and dropped the offending object onto the nightstand beside the bed. Sherlock squirmed and groaned in pain throughout the whole procedure.

Without the bullet acting as a 'plug' the blood was free to continue flowing. Joan saw the sudden gush of blood and quickly applied a heavy bandage and pressure over the wound.

A sudden flash of lightning and rumble of thunder shook the brownstone a split second before the power failed.

Sherlock spit the chewed stick from his teeth, now free after squirming free of Mrs. Hudson's hold, his hand's found Watson's arm and gripped tight. "Watson?"

"It's okay. I've got it under control." She pressed firmly onto the wound hoping that the power would return soon. "Mrs. Hudson?"

No response. Joan struggled to look around the suddenly dark room.

From the doorway a soft glow began to brighten the room. Mrs. Hudson was walking back into the room. "Lit a candle. It's not much help so I'm going to go find a flashlight." She put the candle down on the table so Joan could now see.

"Thanks." Joan was greatly relieved to have Mrs. Hudson helping her. "Sherlock? Are you still awake?"

"Unfortunately..."

"Yeah, sorry. I'm going to need to stitch this up. Okay?"

"Unfortunately..." He repeated his answer, he didn't have the energy to think of something wittier.

A beam of light shone into the room as Mrs. Hudson returned. "I could only find one."

"That's okay. Can you hold it up for me?"

"Like this?" Mrs. Hudson did as she was asked and directed the beam of light down onto Sherlock's abdomen.

"Yes, perfect!" Joan returned her focus to the wound. She used her fingers to check the interior of the wound for any sign of possible internal damage. "My God Sherlock, you're incredibly lucky."

"Could you please speak up Watson, I am having difficulty hearing you over the sound of my bullet wound."

"I'm serious. The bullet missed every vital organ and artery. If it had struck anywhere else..."

"Perhaps I should have thrown my lot in with the other lottery participants this evening."

Joan just sighed at his sarcasm. _'At least he's not suffering from any brain damage_.' Threading the silk through the needle Joan prepared Sherlock's flesh for the impending stitches. As the needle made contact with his raw skin Sherlock exhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around his chest tightly.

"Breathe..." Joan instructed Sherlock while she continued to stitch his wound.

"It'd be much easier to breathe if-" He paused as the needle left another stitch behind before continuing. "If there wasn't a large hole in my abdomen."

"Well, it's not my fault you got shot and refused to go to a hospital."

"I can assure you Watson..." He sighed in pain as Joan finished applying the final stitch. "It was not my intention to get shot tonight."

"I believe you."

The power flickered back to life. The room flooded with light and Sherlock let go of his grip on Watson's hand.

Joan picked up a roll of gauze. "This will stop infection, I hope."

"Not nearly as much as I." Sherlock responded with a grimace.

Mrs. Hudson helped Sherlock to sit up on the bed, as Joan wrapped his freshly stitched injury in the gauze. It took fifteen minutes to bandage his body, his pale complexion almost mirrored the white of the gauze.

"You need to rest." Joan helped him to lay back on the mattress. "You're dehydrated from the blood loss, so I want you to drink some water. And I'll check on you in the morning."

"I admire your confidence in my ability to survive the night."

"I imagine you've survived worse than this."

"You have no idea how right you are, Watson." He sighed wearily as slept quickly overwhelmed his mind.

Mrs. Hudson draped a heavy quilt over Sherlock's body. "Joan, why don't you get some rest? I'll stay with him."

"Are you sure? You've already done so much-"

"I insist. And trust me when I say this isn't the first time I've spent the night baby-sitting a gunshot victim."

Joan looked at her with wide eyes brimming with questions. "Okay... Well, if anything happens don't hesitate to call me."

"Right."

Throughout the night Mrs. Hudson stayed vigil over Sherlock. As the storm passed and the sun began to rise, Sherlock slowly awakened. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'm still here."

"Watson?"

"Sleeping."

"Good. She shouldn't lose a moment's sleep on my account."

"Can I ask a question?"

"You may."

"How did you get shot?"

"I do not wish to discuss it."

"Okay." Mrs. Hudson adjusted the quilt and placed her hand on Sherlock's forehead. "But if you do want to talk about it..."

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson."

_**-The End**_

**Author's Note: **I know, kind of an anti-climactic ending and there was no reason given for Sherlock's predicament. But... In the event I want to continue on this storyline, I have the perfect start! Thanks for reading!


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